


Pride

by Reija



Series: The Two Kings [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Rewrite, Canon Universe, Denial, Drunk Decision Making, Enemies to Lovers, Enemy Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, Love/Hate, Lust, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Movie 2: The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug, Non-Graphic Smut, Slow Burn, Subtle Humor, Wishful Thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25111651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reija/pseuds/Reija
Summary: In which Thorin and Thranduil meet for the first time face to face in Mirkwood, and how each King reacts to the other.Though each detests the other for being prideful, they both reluctantly develop feelings of lust as they reflect upon the meeting, and can’t seem to shake their growing attraction.  What happens when they put aside their pride to acknowledge their desire?Part of a Thorin x Thranduil series.
Relationships: Kíli (Tolkien)/Tauriel (Hobbit Movies), Thorin Oakenshield & Thranduil, Thorin Oakenshield/Thranduil, Thranduil/Thranduil's Wife
Series: The Two Kings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1819912
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. The Meeting

The Elvenking cocked his head as he stared down from his throne at the rabble in front of him, unimpressed. His guards had found this pack of intruders trespassing on his lands _—_ _his lands_ , a transgression that could not be lightly forgiven. At the forefront was the one who claimed to be their leader. Thorin, son of Thráin, the vile spawn of that Dwarvish tyrant who had forced him to pay tribute, yet stole _his treasure_ to fill his own overflowing coffers. He could not bring himself to utter his name, and he took satisfaction in knowing that the greedy bastard was dead as a result of his own insatiable thirst for riches that drove his descent into madness.

This Thorin who now stood before him was as dirty and ragged as a beggar, but proud. The Elvenking didn’t recall meeting him before, but he recognized the look in his eyes. Defiance and stubbornness. All Dwarves were the same in that regard, but the ones of royal lineage seemed to overflow with these qualities. He immediately detested the sight of the man before him. An ember of loathing flickered in the pit of his stomach, a feeling that Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, was not used to.

It had been centuries since the passing of his beloved. That was the last time he remembered caring about _something_. After she had gone, the color had drained out of the forests of Mirkwood, and he sat alone in his great halls and grey walls, waiting for the endless days to go by, with a cellarful of wine to help blur the passage of time. He sometimes even hated the sight of his own son, for in the latter’s face, he saw too much of the woman who would never return to him again. In Legolas, Thranduil saw a mirror, one that often reflected the man he used to be, _the man he could still have been_ if his love had not been taken so brutally from him. Ennui had cast its shadow upon his soul, and feelings of love, anger, and passion could not penetrate its milky veil. He could barely be bothered to feel annoyed these days. But something about this Dwarf brought forth a feeling he had long forgotten.

Now, he was tired of the sight in front of him. _Thirteen_ Dwarves! Their presence _—_ not to mention their foul odors and rude noises _—_ was giving him a headache. He waved for his guards to take them down to the dungeons where their hairy faces and flabby bodies could not continue to offend his senses. But he paused when Tauriel, captain of his guard, was about to take the leader away.

“Leave him.”

She looked at him, a hint of question behind her green eyes, but obeyed the King’s command. When the great chamber had emptied, the Elvenking slowly descended from his throne and approached his captive.

“Some may imagine that a noble quest is at hand. A quest to reclaim a homeland and slay a dragon. I myself suspect a more prosaic motive: attempted burglary or something of that ilk. You have found a way in. You seek that which would bestow upon you the right to rule: the King’s Jewel. The Arkenstone.”

The black-haired Dwarf simply stared at him, refusing to answer. It did not matter. Thranduil circled the Dwarf like a snake ready to close in on its prey.

“It is precious to you beyond measure. I understand that. There are gems in that mountain that I, too, desire. White gems, of pure Starlight.” For a brief second, he saw his wife’s face in his mind’s eye as he uttered these words, as he remembered the day he had planned to present her with the jewels. It felt like a blade had passed through his heart again. His sapphire eyes darkened momentarily before he continued.

“I offer you my help. You have my word, one King to another.”

 _That_ set off the Dwarf, who had grown red-faced and lost his taciturn demeanor upon hearing those words. “You turned away from the suffering of my people, from the Inferno that destroyed us! I would not trust Thranduil, _The Great King_ , to honor his word should the end of all days be upon us!” he roared.

The echo into the great hall resonated for what seemed like hours to Thranduil’s ears. He felt another surge of rage, this time flushing his pale, chiseled cheeks. They burned with anger as his pride as King was wounded by this midget’s insolence. The scars that he had long hidden with magic began to emerge to the surface as Thranduil could no longer stop himself from stepping right up to face the Dwarf, eye to eye.

“ _Do not talk to me of dragon fire. I have faced the Great Serpents of the North. I know its wrath and ruin,”_ he seethed, revealing his true face in its gruesome form.

The Dwarf did not speak as the Elvenking slowly retreated. Thranduil took a moment to bring his burning skin and emotions back under his control. When he turned away, returning to the high ground of his throne, the scars had faded again, leaving only cold porcelain.

“I warned your grandfather of what his greed would summon,” he said coolly as he ascended the steps to his throne. “He would not listen. You are just like him.”

The Dwarf muttered some Khuzdul curse to himself at this pronouncement. But the Elvenking had had enough. He signaled to the captain, who had reappeared after transporting the rest of the prisoners, and she quickly took the captive and removed him from the King’s sight.

“A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an Elf. I am patient. _I can wait._ ”


	2. The Evening

That night, Thranduil lay in his chambers, unable to shake the events of the day. He normally slept well, for there was little in the world to trouble his mind, but on this very evening, sleep was far from reach. Sprawled out on his great bed, he shifted and turned, but could not drift off into slumber. This Thorin was proving to be a thorn in his side. But how could he let a Dwarf get under his skin like this?

He could not remember hating anyone so much. When he received the news that his wife had fallen to the Witch King of Angmar on her return back to the wooded realm, he did not remember feeling anger. A void had opened up and swallowed all the love that had been in his heart. He sealed away his emotions for her in stone when he ordered the statue to be made in her memory, but he could not bring himself to visit the spot where it stood once completed, and in time, it became overgrown with vegetation as it faded into the forest.

Hate was not an emotion he readily understood, for the Elves knew intimately of love and loss, peace and sorrow, but they were usually above the base, crude feelings of the lesser races. How dare the Dwarf sully him and his kingdom with his vile presence?

He scowled with annoyance, realizing that the feeling in his stomach was still present. He could not stop himself from replaying the earlier scenes in his head. He remembered the fierce eyes that stared right back at him when he revealed his scars, no trace of fear to be found in their depths. The dark, thick brows that stood resolute, echoing the tousled waves that cascaded across his shoulders. He had expected the Dwarf King to be as foul and unwashed as his brethren, given his unkempt appearance, but had been surprised that he did not smell as odious as he appeared. In fact, he had caught a hint of spice from the other man’s beard, and something wilder. It was nothing he had ever come across in his kingdom, or in fact in his lifetime on Middle Earth. Perhaps it was the scent of defiance.

He thought of the stubborn curl of the man’s lip when he looked at him, and inadvertently thought to himself that they had looked so soft on a hard man. Though Thranduil had towered over the Dwarf, it did not diminish the regal bearing of the smaller man. The Elvenking begrudgingly acknowledged that Thorin Oakenshield, King of the Dwarves, was perhaps closer to an equal than he would have liked to admit.

The silken sheets had fallen by the wayside as he had tossed and turned fitfully, thinking about the man he had met that day. Thranduil’s broad shoulders were laid bare in the moonlight. His long hair, carefully enchanted into place during the day, now brushed freely against his chest as he sat up. The feeling in his stomach had shifted now, and he recognized it after some time as something he _did_ know. It wasn’t love _—_ that gift had already been granted to him in this lifetime _—_ but he knew its name. _Lust_.

If in that moment, instead of turning away after he had shown Thorin his scars, he had pressed himself forcefully against the other man and pinned him to the wall? If he had reached out to bite that insolent curled lip and drawn his lowly blood? He could almost taste the iron, and wondered if Dwarf blood was as bitter as he imagined. The scent of his beard was intoxicating up close, and Thranduil felt a hint of drunkenness as he breathed it in deeply.

His hands, which had been at the Dwarf’s shoulders, began to travel downward. He wanted to exert his power over the Dwarf King. He wanted to show him that the Elvenking was in control over all that dared enter his realm. But in that moment, it was Thranduil who could not resist the thrall of his lust.

That night, the Elvenking slept deeply, content at having conquered Thorin Oakenshield at last.


	3. The Captive

Thorin Oakenshield was used to humility now, for he was no longer a Lord of the Great Halls of Erebor. It seemed a lifetime ago when he stood by his grandfather Thror’s side, gazing down upon the visitors who had filed into the chamber one by one to pay tribute. But from Lord to lowly blacksmith, he had taken whatever odd jobs were available to feed his kinsmen, learning to set aside his pride when faced with disrespect from common Men, for he knew what he had to do to provide for his people. Pride had no place in his current life. He knew his station.

But today he had met a man who seemed to be the embodiment of pride. Pride and arrogance and a complete lack of empathy. From his pale golden hair to his icy blue eyes, everything about Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, was cold and untouchable. He despised the man from the very moment he set eyes upon his crown of thorns.

Thorin had stood in the Elvenking’s hall, alone, while his kinsmen had been brutally removed and taken to who knows where. The King had taunted him with his words, pretending to offer his help in their quest, but Thorin could see through his act. He didn’t bother to shield his distaste. The Elves were full of false pride, but he knew that their words were lies. He had pleaded for their help when his people fled from Erebor as the flames of Smaug battered his homeland. He remembered the look on the King’s face when he gazed back, emotionless, and commanded his troops to carry on, while _his_ people burned and fell around them. Hate was too light an emotion for the betrayal he had felt at that moment.

 _“Imrid amrad ursul!”_ he shouted forcefully into the hall, his heart black with rage. _“You lack all honor.”_

He had to stop himself from spitting in the King’s face when he loomed up against him, mere inches away from his own visage. He did not care that the Elf was twice his height. When the Elvenking spoke of dragon fire, one of his deep blue irises clouded over, and the planes of his perfect cheeks melted into hollows of bone and sinew. Thorin felt a stir of regret, perhaps even pity, at that moment, for he saw that the man had faced great loss, but it evaporated when the King made a haughty retreat to his throne and gestured to his guard to take him away, sneering down at him from his perch.

“Stay here if you will. And rot.”

Now, he sat alone in a dungeon, separated from his kinsmen, who had been put in a different area of the sprawling catacombs. He hated everything about this moment, from the stone walls of his hold to the stony gaze of the man who had put him there. An Elf could never be capable of understanding his people’s dream to reclaim their homeland, but certainly not this Elvenking, who cared for nothing beyond his own realm. Thorin wondered if ice ran through his veins instead of blood.

He wanted nothing more than to wipe the smirk off the King’s face. Surely, he couldn’t have been born with that much haughtiness, though Thorin had to admit that he did possess remarkable bone structure. His cheekbones were as sharp as Elvish blades. Those cold sapphire eyes were deep and endless, like the depths of the ocean, and framed by long black lashes. But it was his brows, perfectly shaped and strong, that struck Thorin the most, for he had seen nothing like them before. Though his face was androgynous in its perfection, those brows were decidedly masculine. Thorin reluctantly recognized the King’s great beauty, so different from the womenfolk of his race. After all, the man didn’t even have a beard!

Still, he could not stop his mind from revisiting the vision of this man who had stood in front of him earlier. Sure, he felt rage and disgust at first sight, but he could not deny that the King before him was breathtaking. His silken jade robes, rich brocade shimmering in the soft light of the great hall, perfectly accentuated his broad shoulders and tapered waist. Thorin couldn’t help but notice that the open collar gave a brief glimpse of his muscular chest. He felt the quiver of lust as he wondered what lay beneath the garment, as he imagined gazing upon the King’s stature in his natural glory.

 _Damn_ , he thought to himself. _What_ are _you thinking?_

He sighed, slumping against the stone wall, and willing his body to behave itself, for it was starting to stir in strange ways. After all, as gorgeous as Thranduil was, his personality was simply revolting.


	4. The Escape

Thranduil opened his eyes slowly and growled his annoyance at the fine rays of daylight trickling into his chamber. It was morning already, and he had just woken again from _that dream_. He had been having versions of the same dream for how many days now? Surely, it had been at least six, or seven days—but the days were hard to keep track of after all, when everything seemed to blur together.

Yet, night after night, he had dreamt of ways he would dominate the Dwarf King who was still being kept captive in his dungeon. By now, he felt that he knew his prisoner quite . . . intimately, one could say, as far as the circumstances could allow. He had stripped Thorin naked in his mind’s eye and done things to him he had not frequently done to other lovers. Once, his subconscious allowed the other to rise above his station. Thranduil chuckled softly at the absurdness of it all.

 _Well_ , he thought to himself, _We’ll just consider it a bit of roleplay_.

That night was to be another feast for his people, Mereth Nuin Giliath, one of their many feasts of Starlight. Preparations started early, though the feast would surely last into the wee hours. There were decorations to be wrought, many dishes to be meticulously prepared, and above all, much wine would be needed.

Perhaps he would go down to the wine cellar himself and speak with his sommelier about the evening’s wine selection. After all, the quality of offerings had been slipping over the past several feasts. He suspected that the man, who also doubled as the dungeon guard on the occasion that they had visitors, might have had his judgment clouded by imbibing too freely from his collection. That was certainly a problem, one that he intended to remedy later, but first, perhaps while visiting the cellar, he might happen to catch a glimpse of the Dwarf in passing. He had not seen the other man in person since the day of their arrival, but that didn’t stop him from making an appearance in his dreams every night.

The King cast aside the sheets as he prepared to rise, his plan of action decided. Looking down, he shook his head at the sight that greeted him. This would have to change. _Something_ must be done.

* * *

Shortly after breakfast, the Elvenking swept into the wine cellar unexpectedly, his brocade cloak trailing behind him in a flash of ruby. The guards were startled, as they had not anticipated his arrival, and they scrambled to quickly conceal the evidence of the prior night’s drinking party from view. The Elvenking made a great show of inspecting each and every bottle of his finest collection with the reluctant sommelier, who was hoping fervently that the stench of alcohol would not be detected upon his breath, but he had little reason to worry. Though his face was turned towards the bottles, Thranduil’s eyes kept wandering to a cell in the corner, where he had housed his most important “guest.”

He could just barely make out black hair from behind the bars, but he could not see the other man’s face. But what he did not know was that Thorin was aware of his presence, and was trying—and failing—to look away.

Thranduil had dressed for this occasion, in one of his grandest outfits that he usually reserved for the throne room. Instead of the silver green brocade robe he often wore, today he donned a cloak of rich silver threads upon black velvet, lined with red silk the color of the finest wine. The threads glimmered hypnotically in the candlelight. Beneath the cloak, he wore a robe of shimmering black damask that clung to his body like snakeskin. Thorin found that he could not shift his gaze, shocked that the man in front of him was even more splendorous than he had appeared at their first meeting.

Suddenly, the vision was in front of him, as the King passed quickly in front of his cell door, a carefully selected bottle of 2921 vintage in his hand. For a second, he caught the glimpse of deep blue staring intently into his dark eyes. And in the blink of an eye, those piercing orbs were gone.

Thorin did not move from his spot. He almost wished that he had not rejected the King’s initial offer of alliance, for it would have meant that he would find himself again in the other’s presence. Instead, he was left down here to rot alone with his own dark dreams. Teasing him with today’s brief appearance was too much. He had had enough. Something had to change. Perhaps there was a way for him to request another audience without losing face in front of his kinsmen? He would have to think about it. He groaned, a shiver of electricity coursing through his body. Thinking was the last thing he wanted to do right now.

* * *

The feast was in full swing, with Sylvan elves dancing and moving freely through the halls of the realm and the surrounding woods. The great hall had been decorated with small lights that echoed the stars they so dearly loved. Tables generously laden with fruit and flowers had been set throughout for all to partake. And of course, there was wine.

Thranduil looked down at the goblet in his hand, swirling the crimson liquid that looked so much like dragonsblood. Or better yet, Dwarf blood. _That was a pleasant thought_ , he smirked. But instead of participating in the revelry, the Elvenking preferred to spend his feast nights watching the scene and enjoying his wine. A few of the closest members of his court sometimes kept him company, but for the most part, he was fine without their presence. After all, he had been alone for so long, he almost preferred it this way.

A russet-haired woman refilled his goblet once it ran dry. She looked at him inquisitively, for he had an expression of longing upon his face, but handed the glass back to him wordlessly as she shifted her gaze towards the starry ceiling. The vintage he had selected was quite strong, he realized, as he began to sip from the glass. Normally he did not let himself feel the effects of alcohol past the comfortable numbness it helped to bring, but tonight he found his thoughts wandering and his body stirring. He wanted more than fantasies tonight, and why should he not? He was the King, after all. His will could not be questioned within his realm by any other, and his desires were his right to fulfill.

“Tauriel.”

“Yes, my Lord?”

“You came from the dungeons just now. How are our visitors?”

“In good health, my Lord, though perhaps not in good spirits, for they do not feast with us tonight.”

“And how is the black-haired Dwarf?”

A blush came over the captain’s face, but she quickly regained her composure, casting her gaze downward so as to avoid the King’s questioning stare.

“He . . . is fine. I believe he misses his kin.”

Thranduil nodded. A moment of decisiveness swept over him, and he could not wait any longer. The wine was certainly helping his decision making tonight.

“I see. Bring him to my chambers. I desire a private audience with their leader.”

With that pronouncement, the Elvenking set down his goblet and turned to leave the feast.

“I shall expect him in twenty minutes.”

For a moment, Tauriel was taken aback at these words, for she had had a different black-haired Dwarf in her mind. Still, her King’s request did not take her by complete surprise, for it was not unheard of for an Elf who had lived so long to take an occasional lover. Though it is said that Elves only truly loved once, their bodies were still susceptible to the thrall of desire. She smiled to herself, for if the King himself could consider a Dwarf, then perhaps her growing feelings were not so unnatural after all.

Suddenly, a loud commotion caught her attention and snapped her out of her reverie.

“Sound the alarm! The prisoners have made their escape!

_~ Fin ~_

**Author's Note:**

> My portrayal of Thorin and Thranduil's characters is based on the Peter Jackson Hobbit Trilogy (extended editions and supplemental film material), and specifically the portrayals of these characters by actors Richard Armitage and Lee Pace. All dialogue quoted is drawn from the movies with some rearrangement to fit within the narrative.
> 
> My philosophy is to keep the characters as canon to the movies as possible, exploring their potential internal feelings and motivations throughout the story without adding new major events or contradicting the established plot points of the movie.
> 
> For this reason, all works featuring these characters belong to a consistent sub-canon universe and can be read as part of a larger series.
> 
> However, in this universe, characters are not bound by rigid definitions of gender and sexuality, and these relationships are accepted without question or prejudice. Thranduil's love for his wife is no less changed by his growing attraction to a male from another race, and Thorin is no less masculine for his feelings in return, though we know little of his relationship with womenfolk. Wouldn't it be nice if the world were always like this? :)


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